


Moments Stolen From a Ticking Clock

by gosshawks



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Angst, Dancing, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-28
Updated: 2017-11-28
Packaged: 2019-02-07 22:46:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12851142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gosshawks/pseuds/gosshawks
Summary: In the early years of the red plague, Julian Devorak is a doctor on the Lazaret treating an ill and worsening magician. He likes her far too much for his own good. (AU following the theory that the Apprentice had the red plague at one point and died, with my apprentice, Kate)CW: terminal illness





	Moments Stolen From a Ticking Clock

 

She was the most blithely demanding person Julian Devorak had ever met.

Without the red in the whites of her eyes he never would have thought she was ill: Kate was all warmth and willpower and wit. The red plague had made her pale and gaunt, had carved out dark hollows under her eyes, had made her crop her hair short because she couldn’t maintain it otherwise, but she was—present in a way many of his patients weren’t. She didn’t spend her days in a resigned haze, waiting either for a cure or for death, nor did she drape herself dramatically over furniture and wail over her fate (he would come to appreciate this much more when treating Count Lucio).

That wasn’t to say there weren’t difficult days, where she’d stare at the ceiling without speaking, or snatch away his leech bottle and smash it on the floor, or burst into tears seemingly for no reason at all. Kate was young and dying and furious about it. Rightfully. But she was determined to wring every ounce of life from what time she had left, and of course that drew him to her like a moth to a flame. Julian had learned by now that he’d take every opportunity he could to break his own heart. Falling for someone he couldn’t save was just the latest in a long line of mistakes his heart had made (and would continue to make) without consulting his brain in the slightest.

So instead of maintaining the distance between doctor and patient that he should have, the distance that makes being surrounded by the dead and dying bearable, Julian let her light draw him closer. He saw her at the end of the day so he could stay a while before the last boat of the night left the Lazaret. He smuggled her things from the city, books and food and even a bottle of wine once, though he’d spent the whole day terrified it would break in his kit. Today it was a falconry book, bound in green linen with thistles pressed between the pages and secreted with care in the bottom of his medical bag.

Always she’d ask him a hail of questions, and this afternoon was no different: how was the city faring (poorly), what was the sea like today (rough, and it had cost him half his breakfast), had he brought her another book (he had), and was he handsome under his mask (he was, and tall, if she hadn’t noticed). She laughed at that. It was a nice sound, crackling and a little hoarse, but it was cut short by a cough.

“Well of course _you’d_ say that, but how could I ever know?”

“I suppose you’ll just have to trust me,” Julian said, muffled, as he sat at the edge of her bed to examine her. “Tip your head back.” She did so, shivering under his fingers as they probed gently at her neck.

“Your gloves are freezing, Julian,” Kate complained. She didn’t recoil, though, or push his hands away.

“Ah, my apologies. I’m cold blooded.” He was glad she couldn’t see the flush that had crept across his face.

“No wonder you left Nevivon,” she said with a grin. “You must have been an icicle.”

“Ha, ha, ha, you aren’t wrong. Now look forward, please.” Julian checked the scleras of her eyes, frowning. She watched him back, which was horribly distracting.

“Julian,” she said hesitantly, “you’re seeing me through red glass. …How do you even know if my eyes are red?”

He gave a flustered, sputtering laugh. “They get _darker_ than normal! I can still tell!”

“Right,” she said wryly.

“You don’t trust anything I say, do you?” Julian huffed, making a few notes in his logbook. “Perhaps you should find yourself another doctor.” He was fishing for compliments, he knew. Shamelessly.

“I don’t trust anything anyone says, I want to see it for myself,” Kate said. He thought that was a hilarious stance, coming from a fortune teller. She offered him her wrist before he asked for it, smiling, the picture of a model patient. “I like having you as my doctor. I’d die of boredom before I died of the plague, otherwise.”

That sent a pang through his chest, pleasure and hurt all mixed together. “Well, I’m not going anywhere,” he said, with perhaps more feeling than he meant to. Rubbing his gloved hands together quickly to warm them, he sat forward to take her pulse. “Is that any better?” he asked, not meeting her gaze.

“Much,” she said. “Thank you.” Julian forced himself to focus as he counted her heartbeats, scribbling figures in his book.

“Well?” she asked after a moment. He knew she couldn’t make head nor tail of his writing, and in his opinion it was better that way.

He glanced up at her. “Do you actually want to know?” A grimace spread across her mouth as she considered it.

“I’m alright, actually. Thanks,” she said.  _No,_ Julian thought miserably, _you really aren’t._

“If you would let me try the bloodletting treatment again, I’m sure—“

“I swear to god, Julian, if you bring a leech anywhere near me I’ll use the last of my strength to rise from my deathbed and throw both it and you out of the tower,” Kate interrupted, pointing to the lone arrowslit window that was perhaps wide enough for a leech bottle, but certainly not for him.

“But-“ he began, before she stopped him again.

“No leeches,” she said firmly.

“…No leeches,” Julian agreed. He sighed, raking his hand through his hair. “I’m only trying to help you, you know.”

“I know. But I think you know it won’t make much difference, now.” There was no bitterness in her words, no blame. He would have deserved it. If he’d been a better doctor he could have saved her, he could have saved all of them.

But he wasn’t. He was just himself. Julian drummed his fingers against his leg agitatedly. Hot shame rose like bile in the back of his throat.

“…Can we talk about something else?” she said, reaching out to stop his fidgeting hand with her own. He swallowed and forced his fingers to be still. To her he was an open book, even behind a mask. Was it that she’d learned to read him or that he was a bloody wound that everyone else could see as plain as day? Maybe both. Likely both.

“Oh—o-of course.”

“…Isn’t tonight the Masquerade?” Kate said, smiling as she withdrew her hand.

Julian nodded. “Mm, I saw the fireworks begin on my way to the tower. You’d think there wasn’t a plague at all, though I suppose that’s what the count wants.”

She glanced out at the strip of twilight visible through the window. They didn’t have a view of the palace from here, but the sky was tinged with all manner of colors as the fireworks continued. “It’s an extravagant expense just meant to distract us, but I miss it. I’d go every year and wear a ridiculous costume and dance and drink too much champagne.” She turned back to him with a mischievous look. “And give love readings to _extremely_ drunk courtiers.”

“Ahahaha, and how did that go?” He shifted forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees.

“About as well as you’d expect,” she said with a laugh. “No one really wants to hear their future, they just want to be told it’ll all work out okay. In my own practice I’m honest to a fault, but if it’s a party trick I lie as a rule. You don’t want to bring down the mood.”

“I knew fortune telling was at least half lying, but I had no idea it all was,” Julian teased her. Half of it was lying, in his opinion, and the other half was reading people. Rather like playing poker.

Gasping, Kate put her hand to her chest in mock offense. “Doctor! Implying I am a charlatan, why, I _never_!”

He tried to keep himself from bursting into laughter. “I never meant to impugn your honor, I must apologize. Surely there must be some way to make it up to you.”

“There might be,” she said with a faint, sad smile, glancing away.

“…Kate?” he asked. Had he said something wrong? That would be just like him.

She met his eyes. “…Dance with me.”

Surely he’d misheard that.

“I, w-what? What?” Julian stammered dumbly. Heat rose to his cheeks, his nose, his ears. Whatever strip of skin she might have been able to see must have been bright pink.

“Dance with me,” she repeated softly. It wasn’t a question. Abruptly he rose, nearly tripping over his feet, and pushed his chair to the side. His heart hammered against his ribs as he made a flourishing bow and extended a gloved hand to her.

“As you wish.”

Kate gave a flushed smile and took his hand. Carefully, Julian helped her to her feet. Night had fallen in earnest now, and the candle beside the bed filled the room with a warm, low light. He could almost forget why he was really here, watching her in the candlelight that softened the lines and hollows illness had drawn into her face. If only he could see her without a filter of red glass.

“There’s no music,” he mumbled shyly.

“Make some, then.” She moved his free hand to her waist insistently, and rested hers at his shoulder. “You’re leading, it’s only fair you get to choose the tune, too.”

“I hope you know what you’re getting into,” he said.

“I don’t, but I can’t _wait_ to find out.” Kate shot him a conspiratorial smile. Effervescent, glorious confidence filled him, and he swept her into a dance.

Then, Julian began to sing. He wasn’t especially skilled—his voice wobbled, his vibrato was forced, and he was always a bit off-key—but he sang with feeling. And he was a _very_  good dancer. She laughed breathlessly as he twirled her around the tower room, throwing wild shadows on the walls. He serenaded her in his own language, spinning her, waltzing with her, pausing to steady her when she doubled over in a coughing fit.

“Don’t stop,” Kate said, as soon as she was able. She gave him a pleading look, playing with the curls at the nape of his neck. He felt for a dizzy second like his legs would give out. Clearing his throat, Julian warbled out the first few notes of a ballad. _Slow,_ he reminded himself, _slow. You don’t want to overexert her._ He moved his palm to rest at the small of her back and swayed with her, holding her hand.

Everything seemed muffled, and close, and thick, like he was home again and walking through the snow. He could almost taste the cold on his tongue. Suddenly, he was desperate to show her the place he’d come from. His sister, his mother. He wanted her to see anything that wasn’t this miserable place. Eventually the song ended and he fell silent and still, just holding her.

“What’s that one about?” she asked, threading her fingers through his. “It sounds sad.”

“A highwayman who fell in love with an innkeeper’s daughter.”

“I take it it doesn’t end well?”

Julian laughed. “No, well, it doesn’t. But I always thought it was pretty, regardless.”

“That sounds just like you,” Kate murmured, not unkindly. Gingerly, she released his hand and pulled back. She did this, sometimes: he’d thought that she had the discipline to put the space between them that he couldn’t, but he wondered now if she wasn’t breaking her own heart as well as his by letting herself grow so close. It was such a curse to have something you wanted but couldn’t keep. To have to content yourself with moments stolen from a ticking clock. “You should get going. I’d hate for you to miss your boat,” she said.

“…Right, yes.” Julian collected himself and set about packing his kit. His jaw clenched without him meaning to, and the helpless feeling returned. Once his bags were readied, he straightened up and took his coat from the back of the chair.

“…Can you do me another favor?” asked Kate in a deceptively innocent tone.

“Anything,” he said, glancing back at her. Hopefully she didn’t have anything too mischievous planned, seeing as he’d already agreed to it. He did that for her often. He couldn’t help it.

“When you walk out, take off your mask and look up. I could see your face from the window.” She beamed at him. “If you don’t mind, I mean.” _Oh-_

“I-yes, it-it’s no trouble,” Julian said, flustered, as he struck a match to light his lantern. “No trouble at all.” The wick caught, and he shook the match until it went out.

“Perfect. Good night, then, Julian.” She climbed back under the blankets and opened the book he’d brought her. “And…thank you.”

“It’s my pleasure,” he said, and meant it. “Good night, Kate.” He watched her, words unsaid just at the tip of his tongue. Then he took his leave, pulling the door closed behind him. He made his way down the winding stairs with care, holding up the lantern to illuminate his path. Left alone with nothing but shadows and the sound of his own footfalls, an absurd anxiety overtook him. _What if she doesn’t like me?_

But he’d promised. And if he didn’t follow through, he’d have to answer to her.

Julian walked out into the cool night, starting with purpose down the path. He took a breath and turned to face the tower, squinting as he searched for her. Kate reached her hand through the narrow window and gave him a thumbs up. He chuckled to himself, shaking his head.

“Come on!” she called down, cupping her hands around her mouth.

 _Ah, well. The moment of truth._ Dramatically, he tugged off the plague mask and tipped up his head to look at her, holding the lantern aloft so she could see his face. Throat tight, he shot her his most dashing grin. Ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous, why was he so nervous—

It was too dark for Julian to make out much more than her silhouette, but after a pause he heard a loud, enthusiastic wolf whistle. He blushed, pleased and laughing with relief, and reaffixed his mask. He waved to her, and she returned the gesture. Reluctantly, he turned on his heel and started for the docks.

Julian hummed as he walked, though, pausing now and again to take a dance step or two. An intoxicating, bubbly lightness fizzed in the space between his ribs, and he thought tomorrow he might bring her real flowers. A bouquet. Lilacs, maybe. She’d said she liked lilacs.

Stolen moments they might have been, but they were enough. For now, they were enough.


End file.
